Sharing
by NearlyAnonymous
Summary: Sherlock is man who is easily made jealous.


It had started off as a pretty normal day. Well, as normal as you can get when you live with Sherlock Holmes, the world's one and only 'consulting detective'. Dozens of test tubes and glass cylinders lined the kitchen counters, an arm from the morgue had taken up residence in their refrigerator, and the wall had five new bullet holes. The sky was cloudy, threatening to release rain over the bustling town.

John had reluctantly agreed to tag along with Sherlock on yet another case. It was the most recent in a long line of homicides meant to mimic famous murders from films. It was disturbing, Sherlock's favorite type. A star on the door with the victim's name, an autograph book on the front step with a clue to the next target (written in code), a victim who closely resembled the main character of the movie.

The crime scene was full of activity. Men and women in varying uniforms moved throughout the building doing different jobs. Searching for evidence, interviewing neighbors, fighting off reporters, and a group waiting to transfer the woman's body. Crime scenes were always like that, some natural urge to some how be a part of whatever major event was taking place.

John followed Sherlock into the home, up the stairs, and into the bedroom. The woman, a red-head in her late twenties, lay sprawled in the middle of the room. Candles were poised around the room. The word 'Action' was written in blood on the wall, a shocking vibrant red against the pale blue paint and white pillows on the bed. A camera had been set up in the corner of the room as if this was some photoshoot. Sick bastard.

The Doctor turned away, unable to stomach the sickening way the body was mutilated. It brought back memories he's been trying to fight back for too long.

"You alright? You're looking a bit pale." A voice from his right made John jump, his heart pounding in his ears. "First body?"

The man was tall and, as much as John wanted to deny noticing, very handsome. Olive skin, green eyes, a full head of thick black locks. His reassuring smile seemed to put the shorter man at ease. "Um - No, I just- I never get used to this."

"That's a good thing in a way. Better to not understand the monster than to become one yourself." The man chuckled.

That didn't it well with John. Sherlock understood the monsters. He could get inside the head of the most evil men, follow their path. Sherlock was _not _one of them.

"I'm Sam." The man held out his hand with his introduction.

"Dr. Watson, if you're done _flirting_, I could use your assistance. Mr. Sam, it would be best if you left the room. Your presence could prove to be a distraction."

Well, that was quite strange. Sherlock usually only used that tone with Anderson.

* * *

It was later that night, a long day of interviews and running back and forth. Sherlock had solved the case in only six hours, leaving his disappointed and bored. The two men had come home, and the taller dropped down on the couch in normal dramatic fashion, leaving the shorter to take care of cooking and chores. John had searched the kitchen but all he could find were three eggs behind the mysterious arm.

He had just begun cooking when his friend let out a large sigh from the living room, appearing at the kitched door a few seconds later.

"You know, John. I have never been a very easy person to get along with." Sherlock glared at John from his position, leaning against the kitchen counter. The Doctor merely continued making eggs at the stove as if he had not heard him.

"I think it has a lot to do with my inability to share." Sherlock paused a moment. "Once, when I was a child, I pushed a child the swing I believed to be mine. The fall broke his arm."

As troubling as that was, Dr. Watson had no difficulty believing it to be true. "Well, I'm not sure what that has to do with me."

Sherlock chuckled, "You still haven't realized it yet?"

At that moment a strange green blob dropped from the ceiling. A result of another of Holmes' failed experiments, no doubt. Something he never got around to cleaning it up, leaving it instead for his loyal flatmate. The blob landed with a wet plop onto John's cooking food, bubbling immediately from the heat.

Frustrated, John scraped the pan of ruined eggs into the trash and slammed the pan into the sink. "Look, I don't know what you're going on about. Hardly ever do, in fact. So how about we skip playing this game of your's and you just get to the point?"

"But it's so simple." Sherlock smiled and took a step forward, a dark look in his stormy grey eyes. He moved slowly, like a predator, backing John up until he was pressed against the fridge. "You're mine."

"What? Are you-" John's words were cut off as a pair of lips descended on his out. He had just enough time to realize how soft those lips were before they were gone.

A hand at his waist, thumb hooking underneath his shirt, taking the material with it as it worked its way up.

"Sherlock, I don't understand. What're you doing?"

"Proving. A. Point."

John's shirt was lifted over his head, falling to the floor without a sound. The cloth sending dust from the dirt floor blowing in a ton of different directions. The man hissed as the cool air hit his bare chest, a shiver went down his spine.

Sherlock smirked, leaving a kiss on his flatmate's exposed neck. He licked at the skin, delighting in John's gasp for moment before biting down hard enough to leave a mark. He reached down, gripping John's bulging erection through his worn jeans. "Only I can do this to you. Make you feel this good. You're mine, John. _Mine._"

"Yeah, Sherlock. I'm your's."

There was no use fighting it. If John was being honest with himself, he had wanted this for a long time. Probably even since the moment the two of them first met.

**I had to cut this off here. I've only ever written one lemon before and I just couldn't seem to get this one right. I figured it would be best to leave it up to your imaginations then to right some terrible jumbled mess, yeah? So, leave a review and let me know what you think. **


End file.
